Monday, November 17, 2008

If I'd Known Then What I Know Now

I would count each hair on your head and
memorize each nuance of light
dancing on each gossamer strand.
I would store your fresh baby smell in a
bottle for days of drought without you,
when my memory grows dim; future
faith blinded my present with you.

If I'd known then what I know now, nothing
could distract me from watching you
nestle safe in my arms close to my heart,
sweet visions skipping on your eyelids,
diamonds sparkling in morning dew and
pixie dust reserved just for you.
Order the mundane be silent - no
desire for caution this last day!

If I'd known then what I know now,
I would beg God for just a little
more time, for one last kiss on your velvety
cheek, one more lingering look, one
more breathtaking smile before you go,
long enough for my solemn promise:
this is not good-bye, my love, it is
"See you later, Sweetpea."

`February '06`


How, may I ask, could I allow
my child to tread so close to the edge,
without shouting a warning?
If I should tangle
with the stabbing thorns of fear
or landslides of self-doubt --
it is my very own rock-and-a-hard-place.
If the bough should break, the cradle
shall fall, taking my heart with it.
The whir of dark thoughts
clouds my mind. I feel like
a seamstress threading
a needle in the dark.

My mother-heart must allow learning
by consequence or obedience.
How near to the edge do I tread
before the vertigo of indecision
plummets me to my own demise?
Can I save my own flesh and blood
or will I drown in an ocean of guilt,
rescue attempt gone awry?
It is inconceivable to contemplate
this endless dark night of the soul,
or your cruel muttering,
"I told you so."
How do you finally let go?